Infractus Vir
by capjack54
Summary: A rash of seemingly unconnected ODs comes to the attention of the FBI when an old friend of Don's becomes the next victim.
1. Murder on Memory Lane

Love it, but don't own it.

Read, smile, and review!

**1. Murder on Memory Lane**

"**Each man has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title." – Virginia Woolf**

With a pang of desperation, Don realized he couldn't breathe; eyes watering, he gasped for air as his tormentor looked on, smiling. His apartment spun in slow circles around him, a bright smear marking the entrance to the kitchen and the only source of light in the living room besides the quietly murmuring TV. When at last he had managed to gather enough breath to properly sustain him, he wiped at his eyes and let out an impressed whistle.

"You have to be kidding," Don insisted, riding out the last of his laughing fit.

"No," answered Liz, suppressing a giggle. "Dead serious."

"What did your parents do?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, at first. I don't think they had a clue what to do with him, but a few days later, my dad took him into the living room and asked outright."

"He didn't!" jeered Don, feigning horror.

"He did," Liz corrected. "Come on. What would you do if you found an issue of _Playgirl _in _your_ son's room?"

Laughter knocked the breath from him again; it took a little longer to regain himself this time. "Man, I wish I'd thought of that. Charlie would have been humiliated."

Liz's eyes twinkled playfully. "Were things really that bad between you?"

"Well, yeah," admitted Don. Lifting her off his knee, where she had been perched, he rose, depositing her on his lonely love seat before bending to gather their dinner dishes. "He was the youngest _and_ a kid genius; what older brother wouldn't be jealous?"

Setting the dishes on the kitchen counter, he turned on the faucet, plugging the drain in preparation for dishwashing. Liz's head popped up, watching him over the back of the sofa.

"You know, I talk about myself a lot," she began.

"You can say that again," he joked, and had to fend off the pillow she threw at him.

"What I mean is, we don't talk about you that often," she observed. She thought a minute. "Or rather, _you _don't talk about you that often."

"Oh?" he challenged lamely. "What is it you want to know?"

"Well, nothing in particular," she lied, joining him in the kitchen area. "There are just some things I noticed you don't talk about."

"Like what?" He didn't like where this was going, but to end the conversation now would only prove her point.

"Like when your mom got sick," she said, looping her hands around his waist only to find him awkwardly tense.

"Some things you just want to forget, you know?" He slipped a plate dirty with teriyaki sauce into the sud-filled sink, working away the remnants of their Chinese take-out with a soapy sponge.

"Even before that," she suggested. "The office in Albuquerque, tactical at Quantico, fugitive recovery…" She listed the last with a note of sarcasm, complete with air quotes. "It's like you graduated from high school and didn't start living until you came back to L.A."

"That sounds about right," replied Don curtly, reaching for the remaining plate.

"Well, do you want to talk about it?" she prompted hopefully. "Any of it?"

"All right, look," he said, ceasing his furious scrubbing with a sigh to meet her eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you; I like you, Liz, I really do. And there are some things about my life back then that I don't want to get in the way of that. Okay?"

Staring, she noted the defensive tone of his voice.

"Okay," she answered, letting go of him hesitantly and moving off towards the darkened living room. Watching her go, he reached into the sink blindly and felt something trace a hot line across his finger.

"Shit!" Withdrawing the stinging digit from the water, he cradled it in a dishtowel. Wispy red streaks dispersed the bubbles, revealing the guilty paring knife at the bottom of the sink. Any further expletives that came to mind were scattered by the telltale emotionless ring of his cell phone. Having heard the commotion, Liz popped her head in, eyes falling on his finger as, free of the dishcloth, a red line appeared on it as if by magic.

"You got something to fix that up?" she asked, nodding towards it.

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, sending crimson drops to splatter on his otherwise colorless kitchen wall before he realized he'd used his bad hand.

"Medicine cabinet," he called distractedly, ignoring his Pollock-esque redecoration of his kitchen as he dove for the coat he'd flung over the counter. Fumbling in his pocket awkwardly, he at last found his ringing, vibrating cell and flipped it open.

"Eppes," he answered, peering intently at his finger in the dim light and only half-listening to his caller. "Murder? That's for L.A.P.D. Sounds like a suicide to me. What's this got to do with the FBI?"

Liz reappeared, laden with a box of band-aids and a disinterested expression.

"What?"

The tone made her stop; turning, she caught a glimpse of Don's face and didn't like what she saw. The last time she'd seen him this floored, Colby Granger had been confessing to being a spy for the Chinese. His eyes flicked to his watch, and she grudgingly considered their date officially over.

"Yeah, yeah. No, thanks. I'll be there in, like, 20 minutes."

Apparently eliciting a response, he flipped his phone shut, returning it to his coat pocket before slipping the garment on. Patting his pockets with his one good hand, he snatched up his keys, which had been lying hidden under his coat, and made for the door. Liz grabbed her own jacket and followed him down the stairs and out to his car, still clutching the band-aids.

"What happened? Do you want me to come with you?"

Sliding into the driver's seat, he had the engine started in a second, swearing again as his grip on wheel provoked the cut on his finger. Taking the band-aid he was offered, he ripped it open, applying it haphazardly while Liz buckled herself in on the passenger side.

"You said you wanted to know about my past," said Don sarcastically. "Here's a fact; when I was working fugitive recovery, I had a partner. Billy Cooper."

"Okay," she said, unsure where he was taking this. Convinced his finger would hold up, Don revved the engine, hastily checking the rearview.

"Well, Billy Cooper's dead."


	2. Dead Men Tell No Tales

Glad to have some old readers back with me. Thanks for the reviews, guys!

Enjoy!

**2. Dead Men Tell No Tales**

"**You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be." – Chuck Palahniuk**

It was a dingy, run-down motel, the kind of place where you duck your head when you enter and don't give your real name at the front desk. The sign was too covered in grime to read; most of the windows were broken, patched from within with gratuitous amounts of scotch tape and brightly colored papers that, on closer inspection, turned out to be flyers for hookers. Squeezed impossibly between an apartment building and an equally disheveled club with a neon sign identifying it as the 'Crash Mansion', it looked as if one day, its neighbors would simply crush it between them… and that such an occurrence would be a welcome one.

In fact, Don would have missed it completely had the pack of police cars not given it away. Hesitantly, he slammed the SUV door behind him, surveying the dump with a more than puzzled expression; out of habit, he slipped on his sunglasses, though, in the L.A. twilight, they were hardly necessary. Navigating through the maze of police vehicles, he followed the general flow of people into the place. If possible, the lobby was more neglected than the exterior; he was glad to be quickly free of it as he climbed one, two, three sets of stairs, emerging onto a hallway so dark that he thankfully was unable to discern what exactly was living in the corners. Almost immediately on the left, a door stood ajar; into this he turned, and there he was.

The room was small and dark, and smelled strongly of urine, smoke, and death. The source of the latter smell lay on the twin bed that took up most of the room, spread-eagled and wrapped up in stained white sheets that matched the color of his skin. Misty eyes stared accusingly up at the ceiling, the features twisted into a chilling guarantee that Billy Cooper's death had not been a peaceful one.

"Agent Eppes?"

Tearing his eyes from the haunting spectacle, he turned to see a very familiar short, stocky man approaching, clad in an L.A.P.D. uniform.

"Gary Walker?" he returned, confused. "What're you doing here? I thought homicide was handling this."

They are, unless the FBI is on it," he answered, holding out a hand for Don to shake. "We got an anonymous tip that there was gonna be a big deal goin' down here tonight. Staked it out, went in, and what do we find? A dead fed."

Don looked back to the body, unsettled by the casual label; Walker noted the reaction.

"Sorry – one of my boys told me you knew him."

Nodding, Don sidestepped him and approached the bed. "Agent Billy Cooper. He was my partner when I worked fugitive recovery." Cautiously, he reached out, feeling the postmortem cold of the skin as he reverently shut his friend's eyes. For a minute, he sat with head bowed, glad of his shades as the hustle and bustle continued around him.

"Cause of death?" he prompted quietly.

Gary pointed, directing his gaze to a pile of evidence bags on the table, in which were enclosed at least half a dozen white medication bottles. "Take your pick. WE found all sorts of goodies on him; sleeping pills, antidepressants… if your boy was trying to kill himself, well, then, he was on the right track. There were enough pills missing to kill about five of him."

Rising, Don rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. "So what made you think homicide?"

Walking around to the end of the bed, Walker untangled a pale foot from the sheets; he didn't need to point out the dark bruises around the ankle – the contrast took care if that.

"These look to me like they came from some sort of restraints, probably rope or cord," he theorized, twisting the foot to show they ran all the way around. "Wouldn't have noticed 'em at first, 'cause they were hidden with makeup – women's cover-up, they expect."

He returned the foot to its previous position and straightened up. Don let out a held breath. "Okay," he said finally. "Anybody see him come in?"

"Nope," answered Walker forlornly. "Course, I wouldn't believe 'em if they said they had, if they were hangin' around here in the wee hours."

Don cast a baleful eye over the ragtag bunch being interviewed in the hallway. Walker had a point; most of them looked to be the sort who would conveniently forget your name for a fiver.

"Right," he said.

"So, how you wanna play this, Eppes?"

Don shook his head, returning to the foot of the bed to re-examine the bruised ankle. "Are you asking me like this is any other case, or as a concerned friend?"

Walker scratched his chin and gave a faint smile. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"The only thing that would help me sleep at night is if I quit this job." He pushed his shades up and rubbed at his eyes again. "I'm treating it as a homicide."

"All righty, then," said Walker, gesturing to the forensics team, who nodded and stepped in, ants ready to carry their leaf to the hill without complaint. The last thing Don heard before he swept out the door was the horrid, confirming zip of the body bag closing over Billy Cooper's head.


	3. Man Behind the Curtain

Here you go, guys. Sorry it's late.

Read, smile, review... and repeat!

**3. Man Behind the Curtain**

"**Three things cannot be long hidden; the sun, the moon, and the truth." – Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)**

There she was, barely a foot in front of him, her brunette tresses teased by a breeze that he could not feel. She smiled and moved forward, pressing herself against him, green eyes practically boring holes in him with their intensity; her matching dress was tight-fitting, and ye the bond between them was tighter. The magnetism built, a simple unexplained bliss that doubled as she leaned in to whisper playfully in his ear.

"Don," she addressed him, kissing him on the cheek.

"Katherine," he returned finding her smile contagious.

Stepping back, her brow wrinkled, and when she spoke next, her voice was not her own. "No. I'm Liz."

Confused, he blinked, and the lovely scene disappeared, the mysterious black emptiness of the background replaced with a less than inspiring view of the office, and the woman replaced with a puzzled-looking Liz. Still groggy, he lifted his head off his desk. His cheek felt strange; his exploring fingers found several square indents in the skin there, only explained when he looked up to find his computer screen filled with gibberish. The word document was seventeen pages long, a faithful record of exactly which keys he had been napping on for – he consulted his watch – the last twenty minutes. Rubbing the last blurriness of sleep from his eyes, he turned back to Liz, who was watching him with a mix of concern and suspicion.

"You okay?" she questioned.

"Wouiwgjkbjebcnioakmaoihenoanviosih," suggested the computer helpfully.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he answered hastily. "I must have just… dozed off there."

"Right." She gave him a worried once-over and shrugged. "At quarter to one in the morning, I'm not all that surprised. It looks like you need it."

"Bliewfoipejknieugqwjebljdbcoehwqnix," agreed the computer screen.

"I guess." His gaze fell on a packet of papers in her hand, and he jumped at the chance to change the subject before she started asking him questions. "What have you got?"

"Oh, right," she jumped in, handing him a folder off the top of the stack. Flipping it open, he was immediately presented with a rather unflattering photograph of a familiar cadaver on a brightly lit exam table. "Autopsy report. They faxed it over about a half an hour ago."

Don sighed at the broken man on the table. With the harsh lighting, he appeared even paler, a bloodless, alien thing that just happened to look like Billy Cooper.

"Ah, Coop," he muttered quietly.

It was at this point that Liz started in. "They estimated that he'd been dead at least four hours when narco found him. At the scene, they assumed he was killed by an overdose of something."

Don nodded. "We found a pharmacy on the bedside table."

"And you were right," she conceded, making his heart sink. "He did die of an overdose, but the problem is, none of the drugs they found at the scene match the ones they found in his system."

He looked up sharply from the macabre slideshow before him. "What?"

"There were three antidepressants and two varieties of sleep aid at the scene. They cross-referenced the chemical signatures to the foreign substance in his bloodstream, and it didn't match. In all likelihood, he never even touched those medications."

Sitting up in his chair, Don found himself suddenly very attentive. "Do they know what it is?"

"Apparently, there were multiple signatures floating around. They're still working on the others, but they identified one immediately."

"And?" Don prompted.

"Sodium pentathol," she answered, pulling from the stack still in her hands a lab sheet and pointing out the name and the computer's assurance that the results were 99.9 accurate.

"Hang on a minute, isn't that—"

Liz nodded. "Truth serum. And judging by this report, your friend had enough of it to make even a politician spill his deepest, darkest secrets."

Don just stared as Liz continued.

"The guys also found several abrasions on his ankles and wrists that had been hidden with makeup – supposedly, it came from a high-tension cable, the kind they use to build support systems for bridges. In addition, they found some freshly healed cuts and bruises on the head and chest, also hidden." She leaned against the desk, setting in front of him the diagnosis sheet she'd been consulting.

"Restraint marks, old wounds, and truth serum," listed off Don. "Coop didn't kill himself; he was tortured."

The word hung in the air for a moment, making the silence all the more awkward.

"So, what do you want to do?" Liz asked finally.

"I'll have David head over to that motel and pick up the security tapes; Colby can go over them to see when he came in. I need you to head over to the coroner's office and call me when they figure out what else was in his system. Megan can probably trace the stuff back to a manufacturer."

"At one in the morning?" Liz countered incredulously.

"Call it overtime," he said, flipping open his cell phone. "Serious overtime."

"And you?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I'll see what needs doing when they get here."

His phone gave an angry beep, as if on behalf of the three people who were about to be rudely woken up. Looking down, he squinted to make out the text that notified him he had a message. Speed dial nine was his voicemail; the automated voice grated on his nerves when it answered.

"You have two… new… messages," it said painfully slowly.

The first was Charlie. "Hey Don, just sitting here with a kitchen full of food and no one to eat it with. Dad bailed on me too, I guess, so—"

He shook his head. Crap. He'd forgotten.

"Left on Sunday… October… twenty-first… at… seven… fifty-five," concluded the machine. There was a click, and the next message began, turning his stomach as a familiar voice started to speak in an inappropriately casual, joking tone.

"Hey, Don. This is Billy Cooper. By the time you get this message, I will be dead, so you don't have to worry about calling me back..."


	4. Black Ice

I've recently been dividing my time between fanfiction and writing a novel, so updates may be a little far between, but they'll be there, never fear.

Read, smile, review...

**4. Black Ice**

"**From now on, I'll connect the dots my own way." – Bill Watterson**

Even at seven in the morning, the war room was in full swing, screens filled with leering mug shots that flashed by on slideshow. Maps grafittied with the forensic hypotheses of escape routes had been taped to the whiteboard, complete with evidence citations, times, and a myriad of other details. In the middle of it all sat Don, slouched in an office chair with a cup of something that vaguely resembled coffee and a headache. David watched the faces on the projector screen with interest, while Colby examined the escape route diagrams, checking them against his notes.

"Hey Megan greeted them as she entered, clutching a cup of Starbucks that Don was instantly envious of. "How are we doing?"

"Well, we've made a lot of guesses," answered Don, gesturing to the general illusion of progress that had infiltrated the war room. "But that's all they are, really: guesses. We don't have anything solid yet."

From across the room, Colby piped up. "He's right. I tried to pick up security footage to review, and it turns out that their camera 'broke' two weeks ago. I tried using traffic cams, but there's no clear shot of the entrance, and I logged over 2000 vehicles pulling onto that street yesterday."

Don peered at the coroner's report. "If they moved Coop after he was dead, then we're looking at someone coming in between four and eight."

Crossing to the table, Colby scanned his logs and shook his head. "No good. We're still talking about hundreds of cars."

"What about cross-referencing guest names with registered owners?" suggested Megan.

Shaking his head as well, Don fished from a stack the guest roster. "Coop was checked in as—" he squinted to make out the name, "—Kel Bacci." He managed a small smile and tossed the roster across the table. "And his neighbor introduced herself as Miss Octopussy."

"As in the Bond girl?" questioned Colby with raised eyebrows.

"All right, all right, so the cameras are a dud," concluded Megan.

Don eyed the papers in her hand. "Has the coroner called back on IDing those drugs?"

"No," sighed Megan, setting them down on the already file-laden table. "But I did find something interesting with what we already have." Crossing to a laptop, she stopped the slideshow, clicking up a row of five pictures, grinning mug shots paired with grisly crime scene photos. "Five ODs with similar characteristics – the bruises, the drop spot…"

"Wait," Don stopped her, rising to stare at the screen. "Five?"

"All in the last six weeks," confirmed Megan, clicking up Cooper's picture and file. "Ending with Cooper."

"And this hasn't been called a serial killer because…?"

"According to the files, the only death classified as a homicide was Cooper's."

Don ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Can you get a profile for our guy outta this?"

"That's the problem," she admitted with frustration. "The victims are so random, I can't pin down an MO." She opened one of the files, a white guy in his mid-forties with a scraggly beard and a weight problem. "This guy, David Harris, is a garbage man who lives in the slums. And then there's Mia Chang." She summoned up a picture of a pretty Asian woman in a smart designer suit. "She's a bigwig for some fashion line; lives in a high rise across the way, in starlet country. The only thing they have in common is that none of them seem like they would commit suicide; other than that, they seem pretty much random."

"Did I just hear someone use a certain forbidden 'r' word?" came a familiar voice as its owner strode in, smiling.

"Hey, Charlie," David hailed him. "Yeah, we have a group of victims and no way to connect them. I'd call that random."

"Nothing is random," insisted Charlie, scanning the smiling faces and skimming their files briefly. "I could run an analysis on the victims to try and determine a common factor. It's actually quite simple, really; you see, you take…"

Having heard this spiel before, Don reached forward and retrieved the guest list from the seedy motel, musing over the foolish and often obscene monikers absentmindedly. His gaze drifted, eventually coming to rest once more on Coop's unusual choice: Kel Bacci. Or rather, his killer's unusual choice; Coop probably had very little say in the matter. He repeated the name softly to himself. It sounded almost familiar, but he didn't know from where.

"…and the bull dogs' leashes are only a certain length," explained Charlie animatedly to his rapt audience. "This means that…"

Suddenly, he saw it. Grabbing a pen from where it had been nestled behind his ear, he scribbled down two words, letter by letter, crossing out each corresponding letter in the name on the roster. Replacing the pen behind his ear, he read and reread the phrase, reluctant to admit their implication.

"…so all I have to do is take these people's lives, find each one's radius, and see where they overlap," finished Charlie with a flourish.

"How long?" Don asked in what he hoped was an offhand tone.

"Four, maybe five hours, give or take, depending on how much data I have to work with."

"Good; do it." He stood and began to collect his things. "David, Colby, I want you to dig up everything on these people; phone and finance dump, the whole nine yards. Whatever Charlie needs. Okay?"

They nodded and commandeered the laptop, setting to their task. Slipping on his coat, he turned to Megan.

"Try to find a supplier for the sodium pentothal," he ordered. "We can pull business records and see who's been getting this stuff."

"Sure," she said, puzzled. "Where are you going?"

When he answered, he didn't meet her eyes. "To meet an old friend."

He sidestepped her and swept out the door. Looking back, she crossed to the desk and picked up the motel roster. Next to the ludicrous name Kel Bacci were scrawled two words.

BLACK ICE


	5. And the Hero Will Drown

LAte again, I know; I've been in the car so often the last few days, it's not even funny.

A bit extra for the devoted fans this time. Tryt o suspend disbelief... its all in good fun.

And, as always, read, smile, and review!

**5. And the Hero Will Drown**

"**If man were immortal he could be perfectly sure of seeing the day when everything in which he had trusted should betray his trust." – Charles Sanders Pierce**

It was not a nice house, to be sure; the quaint ranch-style might have been in fashion a good thirty or forty years ago, but those times were long gone, and the intervening years had not treated it well. Water stains marred the wooden trim, flaking the paint, and the stucco seemed eroded and brittle. Even the mailbox seemed tired, leaning at a depressed angle as it slowly lost its battle with gravity. Don had been careful not to help it on its way down when he had first pulled in. Standing at the front door, he rung the doorbell, stepping back to survey the fifteen or so identical houses that served as its neighbors. The only distinguishing feature that told him this was the right house was the set of shiny brass numbers on the front door: 418.

The sound of the door opening made him turn; catching sight of the answerer, he was at first taken aback.

"Can I help you?" asked the man gruffly. Perhaps the only thing that time had abused more than the house was its owner; he looked to be in his late forties, and, judging by his expression, wasn't too happy about it. The roundness of his stomach, straining to break free from the collared shirt that had been stretched over it, suggested that a great many beers had helped to console him on the subject. Gray eyes that Don remembered as alive with drive and reason now seemed emptied of everything but boredom. His face was ruddy and hard, framed with a slightly out-of-control, gray-tinted fringe of hair that at some point had been a buzz cut. Don took off his sunglasses and squinted in disbelief.

"Jason…Anderson?" he managed.

With his glasses off, the man seemed suddenly hit with recognition. "Well, well, well, if it isn't little Donnie Eppes." Anderson clapped him on the shoulder, looking him up and down. "Fifteen years look better on you than on me."

"If you say so," joked Don, taking it in stride. "Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to you."

"Sure, sure," Anderson assured him, stepping back to allow him entrance. Shutting the door behind him, he led him down a long entry hall which emerged onto two rooms. The one into which Anderson gestured him was well-lit, due to the large bay window, although, between the dry, sparse furniture and bare walls, there was little in it worth lighting. Anderson, on the other hand, ducked through the other door, calling out so his voice would carry into the living room.

"Want a beer?"

"Uh, no thanks," he called, pacing in the living room. A moment later, Anderson returned, clutching a perspiring Bud Lite in one hand and a glass of ice water in the other.

"You sure?"

Anderson brandished the bottle enticingly, but Don waved him off. "I'm on duty."

Anderson's brows went up as he handed over the ice water and flopped in a chair, his beer opening with a hiss. "Hmmmm," was all he said before taking a swig. He eyed Don for a minute as he awkwardly did the same.

"You've changed," Don remarked.

"Fifteen years will do that to you," commented Anderson. "What've they got you doing now? ATF?"

"Still with the FBI. Field agent."

Anderson tutted. "I guess you changed too, Eppes. FBI field seems a bit tame for the hot-blooded kid I had to deal with."

"I was fresh outta Quantico," argued Don, adding a smile as an afterthought. "Probably would have been dead in a week without you."

"You know it," replied Anderson with a grin. "Still FBI, though? Where'd all that eagerness go, all that 'takin' things hot' and 'haulin' in ass'? Cooper'd be disappointed."

The words stung a little, and Don's grin evaporated. "Actually, that's why I came. A few days ago, narco found a body in a motel in South Central. Suicide. It was Coop."

Anderson froze, the bottle halfway to his lips. "Aw, jeez," he breathed. "I'm sorry, Eppes, I didn't mean…"

"It's fine," Don interrupted. Turning away from Anderson, he started in on the second half of his message. "Anyway, I wanted to find them – the jumper team – for the service." He turned back to Anderson, pulling a stack of photos from his coat pocket. "You know what I found?"

The smile on Anderson's face flickered and died at his tone; he set his beer on the table and leaned back as Don approached, tossing Coop's picture onto the table first.

"They're all dead, Jay," he said, tossing the rest down in a heap. The garbage man and the fashion bigwig stared up at them all, merely actors in costume. "Lee, Mei Ling… all of them. All suicides. All in the last six weeks."

Anderson didn't speak; whether this was a choice or not, Don couldn't gauge before he turned away once more. He continued.

"The name Coop was checked in under was Kel Bacci. That spells 'black ice'. Black ice was Coop's distress word." He ran a hand through his hair. "It was the same for all of them – they were all checked in under false names, spelled from distress words."

"Have you told anyone about this, Eppes?" asked Anderson.

"I want to test a theory first." He should have turned, but he didn't want to be looking at Jay for this part. "Now, access to that information was very limited, so the only people who would have known that name would be Coop, me…" he ran a hand through his hair, "…and you, Jay."

Instead of the reaction he had been expecting, indignation or otherwise, Don heard nothing from Anderson except a small, metallic click. He spun around just in time to hear the gun go off. Something small and hard and very alien punched into his chest, right below his heart, and though the force was not enough to throw him back, the shock did topple him, his face meeting with cheap Berber carpet with a resounding thud. Gasping for breath, he heard Anderson approaching him, watching the shadow fall over him, created by that beautiful bay window. Anderson bent to whisper in his ear.

"It's better this way, Eppes," he hissed quietly. "I've seen what they do to them once they get a hold of them. You'll look down from your pedestal and thank me once you see what they'll do to me."

With a quick jerk, Don snapped out his foot, taking Anderson's legs out from under him. Rolling out of the way, he stumbled to his feet, wrestling his weapon from its holster and planting a firm foot on Anderson's chest. He lay on the floor like a beached whale, staring dumbly at the hole in Don's shirt where the bullet had passed through, and with even more bewilderment at the Kevlar that peeked through via this hole.

"You sold them out," spat Don. "What was the price, then? A shitty house in Santa Monica? The 50,000 you just put in you bank account? Tell me, what does it take to buy Jason Anderson?"

Anderson wouldn't meet his eyes, shaking his head and holding up a hand to protect him from the accusations. "It wasn't like that, Eppes. I swear."

"All right, then, what _was_ it like?"

"I had a choice: be dead or be rich. It wasn't a hard one."

Don was incredulous. "You killed five people to save your own sorry ass?"

"I didn't kill anyone. I just gave names."

"Knowing full well what would happen," exclaimed Don. His blood was pumping; he wanted to hit something, and Anderson was an appealing target, but he resisted. "Who did you tell?"

Anderson seemed suddenly smug. "Don't worry. I expect they'll be here soon."

Don froze. "What?"

Cheekily, Anderson patted the foot that held him captive. "You said earlier that they were all dead," he said, gesturing towards the table. "But there's one left… Eppes."

Suddenly it hit him; a strange dizziness invaded his brain, scattering his thoughts like a gunman could scatter a crowd. Pin-wheeling with his arms, his gun went off once, then twice before he lost his grip on it. Running gracelessly into an obstacle, he slid down the wall as his legs gave out. The last cognitive capabilities his brain was capable of were spent registering the half-drunk glass of water on the table. Not even Kevlar could protect him from this.

As his eyes closed against his will, he prayed the SWAT that he'd called on the way here would arrive before Anderson's mystery contacts. Briefly, he thought of Katherine, imagining her taking him by the hand and leading him into the darker parts of his own mind, where she and the rest of his mistakes lived…


	6. A Million Little Pieces

I have a lot of free time this week, so posts will come more quickly.

I am made happy by the quality of the reviews, but I am made sad by the number of them... (sniff sniff)

Read, smile, and REVIEW!

**6. A Million Little Pieces**

"**Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead." – Benjamin Franklin**

The activity in the war room had died down. In Don's absence, no one felt the need to keep up the façade of productivity; they were at a dead end and they knew it. Megan sat slouched in a chair, scanning the lines of text that flashed by on the screen of her laptop as she scrolled down through yet another person's life. David Harris' file was, from the standpoint of a law enforcement officer, as interesting to read as the dictionary – the guy had done nothing wrong in his six illustrious years as garbage man in South Central, which gave her a profile in and of itself. He seemed almost fantastical; to have no convictions in South Central was practically a miracle.

Sighing, she leaned back, peering down at her watch in dismay. The hand moved relentlessly on to ten o'clock.Ina lame imitation of Don, she ruffled her hair and shook it out; playing with her hair was definitely her tell. Don hadn't told her where he was going, let alone when he'd be back, and yet she had a feeling that even for him, three hours was pushing it.

"Hey," Charlie interrupted her thoughts as he entered. "I finished my analysis, and it yielded some pretty interesting results."

"Whatever you've got is all we've got, so let's hear it." Sitting up in her chair, she rolled out of the way to allow him access to her laptop. His fingers whizzed across the keys, conjuring up the five 'suicide' victims once more.

"Using my clearance, I ran these guys through pretty much every database I had access to," Charlie explained. "I got every single scrap of information I could find and built profiles for them. Then I ran those profiles through my program to test for similarities. The ones it turned out were pretty vague; all of them were between 30 and 40, all of them have clean records… it was almost as if their lives had been made not to match."

Megan's brow wrinkled quizzically. "What are you saying, Charlie?"

Like an Italian, he was talking with his hands today. "Someone made sure that looking at any one of these people would not lead you to any of the others. It's like that serial homicide case on the freeways. These lives are just… too random."

A sigh escaped her. Even then, she'd had trouble believing the concept of something being too random.

"So I pulled some strings and got these names checked out again," continued Charlie. "And I found the connection."

He hit a key, and beneath each file materialized a second record, complete with a second name, a second picture, a second life. Mia Chang transformed into the serious-looking Mei Ling; David Harris, the disgruntled garbage man, was supplanted by Lee Masterson, a bachelor with a winning smile. The only file without a match was Billy Cooper's.

"All of these names are aliases, given to them for security when they retired." He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Every one of these people worked in fugitive recovery. But they served a long time ago – ten or fifteen years, for most of them. When they left, they used aliases to start new lives. Cooper didn't get one because he never left fugitive recovery."

"Why would fugitive recovery agents get aliases?" Megan puzzled.

"That I don't know," Charlie admitted. "It's not standard practice?"

"No. Not unless they were chasing down a jumper with serious connections, and I don't think that's what this is about." Assuming control of the laptop, Megan started checking the files one by one. The group dynamic seemed off-balance, as if someone were missing, but this wasn't what interested her most. Stretching, she pointed to an identical field in each file. "These guys all served on the same team, under this guy named… Jason Anderson."

"A grudge," Charlie postulated. "And now they're all dead."

"No," Megan contradicted. "A team works in pairs, partners. But there are only five victims – an uneven number."

"Well, not including…" Charlie trailed off, his eyes growing wide as he realized the implication.

"Don," finished Megan.

The silence lasted only a moment before Megan rose, peeling out of the war room with little ceremony.

"David, Colby, we've got a problem."

Both of them swiveled in their chairs, grateful to have a distraction from desk work but not at all reassured by the tone of her voice.

"We need to find Don," she said. "Soon."

"Why?" questioned Colby. "What's going on?"

"He may be the next target we were looking for," Charlie replied, fooling with his hair in a distracted manner. He ushered them both into the room for a lesson, while Megan sat against her desk, pulling out her cell phone. Much to her surprise, it began to ring even before she had time to speed dial one. Relief seeped into her veins as the caller was identified as Don E. She answered in a great rush, words paired with a relaxing sigh.

"Don. You've got to get back here; we need to talk."

There was a pause, giving her heart a moment to sink before the strange voice answered.

"This is Commander Linden. I'm from SWAT. And you are?"

"Agent Megan Reeves, FBI," she recited, drawing worried looks from her returning comrades.

"Agent Reeves, we responded to a backup call at a house in Santa Monica made by one Agent Eppes."

"Well, can I speak to him, please?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid we were unable to locate Agent Eppes on the premises. I think you'd better come down here."

"All right. I'll need the address." Sitting at her desk, she rustled up a pen and some paper. The idealist inside her prayed they weren't too late, while the realist in her knew they were already. If she had learned one thing about Don, it was that if he didn't have his cell phone with him, something had gone very, very wrong.


	7. Untouchable

Here's the next one, guys! Now I know how to get you all interested... just kidknap the main character!

Thank you for the reviews -- nice to know I'm appreciated.

Read, smile, and review...

**7. Untouchable**

"**The pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body." – Pubilius Syrus**

A quiet giggle drifted to him from somewhere just beyond his reach. It was not a sweet giggle, from a little girl in a sundress with pigtails, but a high, manic one, creepy and insane. Through his mind passed an image of a straitjacket. Then it was gone, and he settled back into… wherever he was. He didn't know, he didn't care; he just wanted to sleep…

"Ssshh," came a slow, distant hiss. "The baby's sleeping…"

His eyes suddenly shot open as wide fluorescent bulbs flicked and buzzed to life above him. Blinking in the sudden invasion of light, he watched with growing dismay as the world solidified around him. Curiously, all he could make out was… himself. Surrounding him on all sides were equally bleary-eyes copies of him. Only when he tried to get up, and the versions followed his movement, did he realize the images were merely reflections. He studied himself in the mirrors, looking for clues as to his own condition, and consequently he was able to observe his own eyes widening as he realized the tension at his wrists and ankles was due to liberal amounts of cord that bound him to the chair in which he sat. Desperate, he tried to pull free, and was scolded with quick nips of pain that numbed his fingers.

"Oh, shit," he couldn't help but whisper.

"What's the matter, baby?" taunted the voice; now painfully aware of his surroundings, he realized it came from behind him, its echoing quality revealing the hidden vastness of the room. Somewhere in a corner, the corpse of a small animal – or several pieces of a large animal – quietly decomposed, filling the space with a rotten reek that tested the security of his stomach. There was a musky smell as well, but one he couldn't identify.

"Time to wake up, baby," cooed the voice. The blow he then suffered to the back of the head left his brain singing and his eyes seeing double. Still recovering, he watched anxiously as his captor stepped into view, the picture sharpening as both versions of him reconnected. He was a young man, late twenties at most; he would have been handsome, but the look in his eye quickly made him recall the straitjacket. The black sweatshirt he wore only served to accentuate the paleness of his skin, and his beaten jeans revealed skinny legs.

"All right, Eppsie," he said, prowling around him as if preparing to devour him. "These are the rules to this little game of ours. First, a word of caution; no one knows you are here. If Anderson had done his job, no one would even know you were missing, but he managed to screw that up." Turning away, he giggled again, rubbing his hands together. "But he paid, oh yes, he paid."

Stomach turning uneasily, Don fidgeted in his chair, and the man turned, drawing from his pocket a switch. The blade flicked out with a subtle click, freezing Don where he sat.

"Not finished with you yet, Eppsie," he growled. "Second rule: no sneaking tricking me and escaping. If you do—" he dug in his other pocket and produced a piece of paper, on which were scribbled several addresses that, with a cringe, Don recognized. "I know where you live, where your brother lives, your father, your girlfriend…" He trailed off and flashed him a grin. "And I know how to make them pay."

Don was silent; this guy knew more than he should. Everything, most likely; no bluff.

"Third rule; when I ask you a question, you answer. If you don't, well…" He showed off the switch lovingly, beaming at the unfinished thought. "You get the idea."

Trying to stare the guy down, Don filled his gaze with defiance, which he fully expected to piss him off. On the contrary, the man whistled and clapped, looking genuinely pleased.

"It seems I don't even have to go over the next one," he said pointing away into the darkness. "For the purpose of improving my… services, our game will be taped, so please, be honest about how you're feeling. Express yourself. Nothing is more boring than a show without emotion."

At the end of this spiel, Don finally found his voice. "Who are you? What is it that you want from me?"

For a moment, the man considered him. "Someone you messed with a long time ago." His smile was restored as he stood up, moving out of sight. When he returned, he had pinched between his fingers a tiny needle filled with fluid. He brought it close to Don's face so he could read the label.

"Know what it is, Eppsie? he asked gleefully. "Sodium pentothal – a potent truth serum. But you already knew that, didn't you? Considering your history, you've probably handled tons of the stuff, but we'll talk about that later."

He couldn't suppress a wince as he felt the needle slide into his arm; he had never liked getting shots, and the context wasn't helping to calm him down. Then it withdrew, and the man tossed the empty needle into a corner, resuming his pacing.

"All right, Eppsie. Let's start with an easy one; what's your name?"

Despite the fact that it was information they both knew, Don knew that answering would put him in the passive role; instead, he clenched his jaw and said nothing, instead focusing on the sudden cold in his veins.

"No?" The man shrugged and swiped, drawing him an artistic slash across the bridge of his nose, just barely missing his eyes. "May I remind you, you're the last one, Eppsie. The cat's out of the bag, and I don't have to worry about what it looks like. None of this fake suicide crap – this will be a good old-fashioned homicide."

Biting back a swear, Don could feel the blood carving pathways down his face, creeping down his cheeks like tears even as he tried to compose himself.

"Now that we've learned that little lesson, I say we jump right in."

From behind him, the man leaned in close, his mouth an inch from Don's ear.

"Tell me about Katherine, Eppsie. Tell me about the woman you killed."


	8. The Butterfly Effect

Sorry for the delay, guys. My area fell off the wi-fi grid for a while.

**_A DISCLAIMER TO MY MORE SQUEAMISH FANS:_** Thsi is perhaps the goriest chapter yet, probably deserving of an M rating. If I feel the need, I'll bump up the rating in later chapters, but for now, this should be the worst of it. If you're still intent on reading the chapter, skip the paragraph describing Jason Anderson...

Read, smile, review!

**8. The Butterfly Effect**

**"The worst pain a man can suffer: to have insight into much and power over nothing." – Herodotus**

The elevator doors opened onto an unusually quiet office; most were solemn, others simply absorbed in their work, but aside from whispered queries, the room was silent. Eyes followed Liz as she made her way towards the war room; she knew they were watching her, waiting for her reaction, but all she did was assume a blank expression and slap her heels extra loudly against the tile floor. At last, her sweating hand found the door handle, and conversation gradually returned to something resembling a normal level. Once inside, she leaned back against the door to shut it quickly; she'd always worried that her relationship with Don would create some office awkwardness, but she'd never expected this – any of it.

Luckily, her private musings had only a small audience. Colby was sitting on the conference table, eyes fixed on the tiny screen with which his Nokia was equipped. Liz took a stab at nonchalance.

"What have you got?"

He looked up briefly. "Megan's at the house in Santa Monica – she sent us a few photos that might help, since we can't get at the file at the moment."

She set her bag on the table and frowned. "What?"

Flipping the phone shut, he nodded and sighed. "Yeah, the guys down in Fugitive Recovery are being a pain in the ass; they're claiming that since Anderson was their guy, once upon a time, they should be investigating his death. We haven't been able to get our hands on any of the evidence or reports."

"Sounds thin to me," she said, holding out her hand for the phone. "How long is it gonna take to knock it down?"

"The guys upstairs say a few hours."

"Don may not have a few hours." She spoke without thinking and instantly regretted it, and yet Colby's expression didn't switch to the portrait of mild distaste everyone else seemed to have permanently adopted; instead, his features softened, and he looked away instead of staring. She distracted herself with the phone, scrolling through the images with a restless stomach: the phone lying on the carpet, the bullet holes in the wall, the shattered front window, and finally, and most grotesquely, a few choice shots of Jason Anderson himself.

The figure sprawled in the bloody chair reminded her of one of those children's book about the human body; his killer had pulled back a flap of skin, revealing red, shiny organs and stringy muscles, some of which had been extracted and piled in gleaming heaps on the arms of the chair. His cheeks had been cut with a scalpel and flipped up, revealing the kind of empty smile that skeletons are capable of giving. The walls were a tame shade of beige that was only interrupted by the spray of slick gore that had exited his head at the urging of a bullet from temple to temple. Liz's stomach turned as she stared into wide, fear-filed eyes and realized that these monstrosities were probably performed ante mortem.

"Disemboweled," Colby said, rubbing at his face as if happy that his cheeks were intact and in the right place. "That's the first time I've seen someone disemboweled."

"Well, if it's the same guy who's been killing our Fugitive Recovery agents, he's broken his MO," she managed to point out without losing her lunch.

"I find that most sadistic psychopaths generally follow the same rules," Megan butted in, pushing through the door as if it were made of iron and luckily distracting Liz from the grisly show.

"That was fast," Colby said, brows raised.

"Yeah, well, Fugitive Recovery kicked me out pretty early on," she admitted. "Anyway, from what I can tell, even though the crimes are different, the profile I have still stands. Our guy is methodical, organized – he enjoys the power he has over his victims. To him, this is probably one big game. What I don't know is how he expects to win; his motivation could be any one of a number of things."

"What about Charlie's theory? A grudge, maybe?"

Liz shrugged and stood. "It's worth checking out. I'll get David and get a list of people that might have filed complaints, sued the Bureau…" She looked around, confused momentarily. "Where is Charlie?"

"Downstairs with the tech guys. I couldn't stop him working, but he wasn't exactly helping up here," answered Megan, pulling from her coat pocket her notepad. Flipping open to a page, she scanned a few lines of scribbled notes. "Don's car was found in a park ten miles down the road; we did manage to get a hold of _that_ as evidence. The tech guys are trying to revive the on-board navigation system, but since the on-board navigation system went through a tree, they're having a little trouble."

"Great," sighed Colby, letting his shoulders sag. "We have a classic grab and run and no leads."

"Not yet," said Liz, heading out the door for her cubicle and only stopping to hold it open for David.

"Well, when we can get Fugitive Recovery to release the evidence, we can run secretion and fiber DNA," Megan said, fooling with her hair for a minute.

"Guys, you'd better look at this," David, interrupted, setting down an open laptop on the table and plugging it in to the projector. "I was doing a phone and finance dump on Anderson and found this." He highlighted a line of text on what looked to be a bank statement. "Six weeks ago, Jason Anderson deposited fifty thousand dollars into his savings account."

Colby whistled. "Either our guy won the lottery, or he's involved."

"So I got the paperwork to search his e-mail. There was an address that, as of six weeks ago, has popped up five times."

Megan stood. "Five times, five victims. That's gotta be our guy."

"Can you trace it?" asked Colby.

"Not yet to an individual," David replied forlornly. "Tech guys are busy with the navigations system."

"This should get priority," Megan said, squinting to read the address. "Whoever this 'M.a.D.man' at Yahoo is, he's the key to all of this."

"YOU'VE GOT MAIL!" bleated the computer cheerfully, making them all jump. Indeed, a new message appeared on the screen.

"It's from M.a.D.man," said Megan with confusion in her voice. "But why would he send Anderson an e-mail if he knew he was dead?"

"Let's see," David said, clicking up the e-mail, which Megan read off with a voice that slowly infiltrated by a note of fear:

_Hey Andyboy,_

_I thought in our little chat, I made the consequences clear, but apparently, things needed to be spelled out for you. After what you've done, I was disappointed you didn't last longer, but at least I can sleep easy knowing that you'll roast in hell._

_M.a.D.man : )_

_P.S. – To the FBI agents reading this, I know better than anyone you like to look out for your own, but give up. Pop up some popcorn and watch this._

Below the note was a link to a website, which David scrolled down to. One click, and suddenly the projector screen was filled with an image that put everyone's heart in their throats.

Don was not looking well. He looked especially pale under the harsh lights, and his eyes held no comforting glint of thought or strategy; his hands lay limp on the arms of the cheap chair to which he was tied. He looked almost sleepy, except people usually didn't go to bed with that much blood on their face. Behind him, something moved, and from the shadows emerged a figure, leaning over Don's shoulder.

"Who is _that_?" Colby asked, but Megan shushed him as the mystery man began to speak; his words made them all freeze in their tracks.

"Tell me about Katherine, Eppsie. Tell me about the woman you killed."


	9. The End and the Means

Here's the next one, guys; let's check back in with Don and his lovely companion. Giggly, Black Widow... all interesting names, considering I haven't given him one yet, but you can't just say 'the man' forever...

Read, smile, and REVIEW!

**9. The End and the Means**

"**Justice belongs to those who claim it, but let the claimant beware lest he create new injustice by his claim and thus set the bloody pendulum of revenge into its inexorable motion." – Frank Herbert**

The slap Don received as a result of not answering had the edge of a knife in it, raking a fine line that nearly slit his eyelid in two. A swear escaped him as he felt the switch's path, and he felt a sudden thrill of fear and panic as he realized he could still see his captor through the sizable hole in the instinctually shut lid. His eye stung as blood found its way in via the somewhat eccentric route; his fingers twitched, wanting to wipe it away but unable to.

"Aw, don't cry, Eppsie," teased the man, putting a finger under Don's chin and nudging his face up to his. "I'm sure you're sorry, and if you're not already, you certainly will be." He slapped Don's cheek and continued pacing. "You know, when your partner was in this chair, he told me it was easier to accept your fate once you confessed your crime." Briefly, he stopped to pick at his teeth with the bloody switch, smiling wide. "But let's get back to Katherine. You did kill her, didn't you, Eppsie?"

"No, I don't know what you're—"

WHAP. His nose was filled with a warmth that ran slowly down his face; he spat a good deal of it from his mouth, coughing to clear it from his throat before he swallowed too much.

"Lying, Eppsie," tutted the man. "We talked about lying, didn't we?"

The smell of blood – his own blood – was making him sick, his head pounding in time to the words and his stomach doing flips. He licked dry lips and kept his eyes focused on the man, prowling around the edges of the circle of light.

"Let's try another one, Eppsie. Have you ever tortured anyone for information?"

Don clenched his jaw. This guy knew it all, for whatever reason; lying was only going to get him killed faster. He mumbled his reply grudgingly.

"What? I can't hear you, Eppsie."

"Yes," he said; his voice was patchy and disused.

"Very good, Eppsie," applauded the man, beaming. "Let's see is you can do it again. Have you ever illegally administered sodium pentothal to aid in interrogation?"

Don paused; he couldn't believe he was here, now, doing this. "Yes."

"Oh, look at the good little boy," the man gushed to the camera. "You're on a roll, Eppsie. Now let's go for the biggie; did you kill Katherine Lawson?"

His eyes stung, and not just from the blood; he gathered his breath, his voice somewhat ragged, and replied. "I… didn't."

For the first time in their brief relationship, Don watched his captor lose his composure. Letting out an inhuman snarl of rage, he landed a kick directly between Don's conveniently parted legs; in addition to the initial agony, he watched the world tilt sideways as the chair tipped back, feeling his head hit the floor a minute later. Dazed by the impact, Don simply lay for a minute, watching the warm blood from his nose meet with the damp cool of the concrete floor. Then strong hands heaved the chair back upright, and he was once again staring into the charming grin of his captor.

"Sorry about that, Eppsie. When you lie, I get frustrated. When I get frustrated, Mr. Weasel pays me a visit. And when Mr. Weasel is around, well, things can get…" He considered Don, then winked. "Messy."

The man rose from his position crouched in front of Don and made off into the black. When he returned, he had with him another needle. Don shook his head feebly, but the man just laughed.

"Now, now, Eppsie, its all for your own good. You were doing so well, too…" He clicked his tongue and slid in the needle. "Maybe a bit more sodium pentothal will have you feeling a bit more… cooperative."

Clenching his fist, Don felt the fluid enter his system; the man – Weasel, as Don imagined his name to be after his recent outburst – disposed of the needle as he had once before, wiped his switch clean, and resumed his endless circling.

"I'll tell you, Eppsie, you're not like the others. Most of them started talking after the first dose, so I'm not entirely sure what this one will do to you." He smiled serenely, eyes distant, as if he were reliving some fond memory. "Cooper was funny after the second. At twice the safe limit, my research says symptoms include delusions, decreased cognitive processing, and recall of potentially traumatic experiences. That should loosen your tongue, eh, Eppsie?"

Don didn't answer; he sat as still as possible, blinking furiously as his world drifted in and out of focus. Weasel knelt before him, eyes dancing with hidden laughter.

"Concentrate, Eppsie, and tell me the truth," urged Weasel in a slow, patient voice. "Did you or did you not, under orders by your boss, Jason Anderson, on the night of October 31st, 1993, take into your custody a woman by the name of Katherine Lawson, and, with your partner, William Cooper, conspire to and succeed in first torturing and then murdering her?"

The pause was long and tense; Don could feel the cogs in his brain grinding against one another. All the flimsy rationalizations and mental blocks he'd developed over the years had been suddenly stripped away by the drugs. When he looked up, his one good eye was brimming with tears.

"Yes," he breathed to the dark. "Yes, I did."

It was Weasel's turn to pause. "I'm proud of you, Eppsie," he said quietly. "I know how long you've carried that secret. I have lots of secrets like that, and someday before I die, I will tell someone all of them. Maybe it will be you I tell." A subdued grin turned up the corners of his mouth. "Or maybe you will be one of my secrets."

He rose suddenly, approaching the still-recording video camera with a look of glee. "Now you know the secret of Don Eppes, I implore you all to decide how far you're willing to go for him by yourselves. Have a wonderful day, agents; Eppsie and I have other things to discuss."

The bottom fell out on Don's stomach as a tiny click told him the video camera was off. "'Agents'?" he echoed.

"Oh, yes," replied Weasel cheerfully. "That part was the nice part. That was all for your team's eyes only. Now we can really get down to business."

Don's heart started racing as Weasel made his way into the black, especially when, a minute later, the lights went off, and a disturbingly close whisper made him jump. A knife blade pressed against his throat, and he tensed against it.

"Tell me, Agent Eppes," said Weasel, but this time his voice was colder, harder, not playful like before. "Are you afraid of the dark?"


	10. Speak of the Devil

In case anybody was wondering, the title 'infractus vir' is Latin, and roughly translates to 'the broken man'. Quite fitting, I think, considering Don's current situation! But for now, let's check back in on the home team…

A quick thanks to ThinkExist, a most excellent website and the source of almost 95 percent of my hopefully relevant and insightful quotes.

Read, smile, and review!

**10. Speak of the Devil**

"**Your friend is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you." – Elbert Hubbard**

"Now you know the secret of Don Eppes. I implore you all to decide how far you're willing to go for him by yourselves. Have a wonderful day, agents; Eppsie and I have other things to discuss." Click.

For the hundredth time, Megan rewound the tape, watching with cold disbelief the critical moment, the single moment that had left the war room in a state of shocked silence for many more to come.

"Yes," came the quiet, pained voice. "Yes, I did."

With a click, she froze the screen, carefully zooming in on the part that most interested her. Peering intently at Don's face, she searched once more for any sign, and small physical tell that would confirm her hopes, but, just like the ninety-nine times before it, there was nothing to be found. Never before – and never again, she hoped – had she seen Don so scared, so pale, so completely and obviously unsure of himself. So used to seeing him in the office, in the field, in command, it both frightened and intrigued her to see Don Eppes so totally out of his element. But it wasn't even that simple; her strong sense of compassion was slowly being strangled by a growing sense of betrayal. Don, torture someone? Don, _murder_ someone? And a woman as well? Her brain tried to process it, while her heart tried to deny it; the winner was clear as she once more rewound the tape.

"Yes. Yes, I –"

The sound of the door opening made her jump; she had specifically escaped to this tiny room, three floors down in tech support, to avoid her teammates, if only for a little while. There were drawbacks to being the one who listened when someone needed to talk, the most prominent being that you never yourself had someone to talk to. Spinning in her chair, she slumped back when she recognized Colby, holding a file in one hand.

"Hey," he greeted her. "I've been looking all over for you – so has David." Catching sight of the source of her occupation, a look of sad recognition crossed his face. "You still looking at that?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "I just – I don't know. I just wish I was missing something."

"You are," Colby replied, and she looked up at him sharply as he referred to the file in his hand. "These are the coroner's records on Katherine Lawson. Age at time of death: 36. She had a son, Sean, with her first husband, Luke; she divorced him in 1990. A year later, she met Antony DeLuca, of the DeLuca crime family. I guess she didn't mind his background, because after seeing each other for two years, he popped the question in August 1993. She was all set to marry him in the spring, until her untimely death on Halloween that same year." He handed over the file for her to browse. "I looked for her in all our databases – solved, unsolved, everything. Guess what I found?"

Megan's eyes flicked down to the cause of death, and her brow went smooth. Colby nodded and crossed his arms.

"According to our records, Katherine Lawson died of a non-accidental dose of heroin. They had it filed as a suicide."

"Exactly like our other five victims," Megan added. "Whoever our guy is, he's close to this; this whole exercise is about revenge." She scanned the dead woman's file once more, and her eyes lingered on the picture clipped in the upper left that portrayed Katherine Lawson. The green eyes stared back at her, knowing more than her subdued smile let on.

"The fiancé, maybe? He had some serious connections."

"I don't think so. If he was going to kill her, why ask her to marry him?"

"What are you guys doing all the way down here?" questioned David as he let himself into the cell-like viewing room.

"Nothing," Megan replied, dismissing the question with a wave. "What have you got?"

"I just came down to see how the tech guys were doing. They got a pretty clean image off the tape; they're running it through our databases now."

"How long till that's finished?" asked Megan, still eyeing the folder in her hands.

"I'm not sure. To run it through the entire database could take hours."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Liz, followed closely by Charlie. Hastily, Megan shut off the computer screen before Charlie could determine its contents. Liz contributed her own file to the growing pile of paperwork on the desk before giving a halfhearted hello.

"Full coroner's report," she said, identifying the most recent file. "They figured out what was in Billy Cooper's system."

Eagerly, Megan abandoned Katherine Lawson's file and opened the second, flipping through pages of drivel before her eyes picked out what she needed to know from its midst.

"Fifteen milliliters of sodium pentothal, administered in five milliliter doses, the last one accompanied by ten milliliters of—" she peered closely to be sure of the diagnosis, "—Lanoxin?"

"Lanoxin is the commercial form of digitalis," Liz supplied, throwing her coat over a vacant chair and collapsing into it. "Normally, it's meant to slow a racing heart, but what they found in Cooper was something like five times the recommended dose."

To Colby, this was all starting to sound disturbingly familiar. "That'll stop his heart cold," he echoed quietly.

"But based on the timelines we put together, Don could have days," David said hopefully.

"No."

All eyes turned to Charlie, who had spoken with such conviction.

"I'm no behavioral expert, but I think it's safe to say that our guy isn't following his normal routine; pacing, spacing out the… murders." The last word stuck in his throat like it never had before, when it had happened to someone else, anyone else.

"Sure, Charlie," offered Megan gently. "He's moving faster."

"Proportionally faster," Charlie corrected her. "He's acting at a rate almost five times his usual speed. Now, if we take these timelines and accelerate them by that factor…" Out of his pocket, he fished a marker, immediately setting about marking up the tech room window. When he at last ceased, he circled a single digit and stepped back.

"Eight hours," he pronounced. "Don has eight hours."

Leaning back as the news broke over her, Megan felt her elbow tap something by accident, and yet she still jumped when the kidnapper's voice blared through the speakers she'd neglected to turn off, breaking the uneasy silence.

"—in first torturing and then killing her?"

"Yes," confessed their leader for the thousandth time. "Yes, I did."


	11. Angels from the Ashes

I appreciate the appropriate use of anon reviews.

I also greatly enjoy the reviews people have been kind enough to leave, although I realized only recently I haven't made this particularly well-known. Thanks, everyone!

Now, let's see how Don and Weasel are getting on, shall we...?

Read, smile, and review!

**11. Angels from the Ashes**

"**Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most." – Mark Twain**

He was shaking – no, the world was shaking, and he was attached to it somehow, though he could no longer feel how. The darkness pressed in on him, a tangible thing from which there was no escape, no happy interruption, not even when he closed his eyes.

"Don?"

Eyes snapping open, he searched desperately for the source of the voice, his first visitor since Weasel had left him what seemed like an eternity ago. Somewhere in the dark, his gaze locked upon a fold of red fabric as a quiet swish betrayed its position. Not daring to look away for fear of losing this reference, he leaned forward, watching, waiting, and suddenly, there she was, kneeling in front of him, her green eyes bleeding compassion.

"Poor Don," she soothed gently, taking one of his bound hands in hers and stroking it to relax the tension there. "Three hours alone in the dark – and I know how you hate the dark, Donnie – I thought you could use some company."

A relaxed sigh escaped him as she laid her hand on his cheek, savoring the moment of heat in this world of cold; he even allowed himself a contented smile. "Ah, Katherine…"

When he opened his eyes again, he yelped and recoiled from her touch, which was suddenly slippery with blood that Don knew wasn't his. The brunt of her confused look stared back at him from bruise-ringed black eyes. Tucking a strand of blood-matted hair behind her ear with a finger devoid of a fingernail, she pouted lips stained red by more than lipstick.

"What's wrong, Donnie? Can't take what you did to me?"

He tried to escape her eyes, but they were everywhere. "I didn't, I swear, I didn't mean to—"

"I know," whispered Katherine, leaning forward. Don leaned back, avoiding her, but her lips pressed against his, her tongue infiltrating his mouth, which was suddenly filled with blood. It bubbled up from his throat, throwing his head forward, straight through the spectral image of Katherine Lawson, and with a great heave, he vomited. The illusion was shattered, and he was left coughing, heaving, shaking, and once more utterly alone.

"Get out of my head," he hissed to the night. "GET OUT OF MY GODDDAMNED HEAD!"

The only answer was the distant echo of his shout as it went the way of his sanity and was swallowed by the dark. Then, from somewhere in the folds of night, came a suppressed giggle. Gaze combing the dark, he tried to find some brief glimpse of pale skin, but instead, his heart sank as he once more caught a flash of red dress, circling him like a vulture, waiting for him to break…

"I know you're there," called Don, trying to ignore the fast-approaching red dress and its owner. "Why don't we talk?"

Footsteps followed, and yet Don still jumped when the reply came from very close to him. "Oh? And what is it you'd like to talk about, Eppsie?"

He cleared his throat of bile to better speak. "Katherine."

"In that case…" A quiet click, and Don was momentarily blinded by the lights that quite suddenly buzzed to life. No more than five feet in front of him knelt Weasel, clearly back to his normal creepy self, though there was a light of curiosity in his eyes. Absentmindedly, he fished his switch from his pocket and flipped it open.

"I'm all ears, Eppsie."

Don took a ragged breath, focusing entirely on Weasel's pale, would-be-handsome face instead of the figure he could now make out, circling, ever circling…

"What we – what _I_ did to Katherine Lawson was unforgivable," he started, and Weasel agreed with a nod. His eyes following the prowling woman, he aimed his words more at her than Weasel. "She's dead. I killed her."

For a split second, he thought he saw Weasel flinch at the bluntness of his words, but he just motioned for Don to continue, and Don obeyed.

"So how," he ventured cautiously, "is that different from what you're doing now?"

"You deserve it," spat Weasel. "My—" He seemed to catch himself, re-starting the sentence. "_Katherine_ didn't. That's the difference, Eppsie."

"Not in the government's eyes," Don countered, trying to fill his head with all the negotiation tactics he'd been taught at Quantico instead of the grim smile of Katherine's lips and she paced. "Now, you've made some mistakes, but if you walk out of here with me, you've got some options."

Snorting, Weasel stared down the edge of the knife at him. "What? Can I select exactly which room I'll get on death row? I'm sorry if I'm not kneeling at your people's feet and asking for forgiveness, Eppsie."

His eyes flicked back and forth between Weasel and Katherine. "I'm not gonna lie to you, buddy, you don't have much to work with."

"Six bodies have a price tag?" exclaimed Weasel, faking shock. "I never would have guessed."

As Katherine approached, Don's patience failed. "Yeah, well, you make it seven, I guarantee they'll stick a needle in your arm so fast—"

"Oh, yes, Eppsie?" Weasel said, eyebrows raised. Digging in his sweatshirt pocket, he produced a very familiar pointy cylinder, a shape Don had come to fear. "Let me tell you how it is, Eppsie. If you keep talking diplomacy, _I _stick a needle in _your_ arm, and I make it seven. Clear?"

That shut him up. With a smug grin, Weasel moved off, pocketing the vial that held his power. Don watched him go with unmasked confusion.

"What is it you wanted out of this?" he blurted out suddenly.

Weasel stopped and turned, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

Don shifted, and put more surety in his voice. "What is it you're doing all this for? To torture me? You've done that. I've done that, for fifteen years."

For a moment, Weasel considered him thoughtfully.

"I wanted to hear you say it," he managed finally. "After fifteen years, I wanted to make you remember, to make you confess."

"And you wanted to kill me," finished Don. Weasel gave a brisk nod, and Don looked down. His most recent plan, what he was about to do, was foolish, and probably largely based on the advice the sodium pentothal had to give him, he knew, but he didn't care. After so long in this hellhole, with no sign that anyone was coming to get him, he was willing to try it. Once more, Don Eppes would have to be the strong one; he was getting out of here… even if it was in a body bag.

"Look," he said quietly. "My old friends are dead, and after what you made me say, I don't think my new ones are particularly concerned with what's going to happen to me. I've had this on my conscience for fifteen years, and there are times – oh, there have been many times – where I wanted to do the exact same thing."

Weasel cocked his head to the side. "What are you saying, Eppsie?"

"What I'm saying, _Sean_," Don said, putting particular stress on the name, "is if you want to kill me, what are you waiting for?"


	12. Chasing Smoke

All right, guys, we're on the home stretch, here. Only a few more chapters, and this puppy's DONE!

As always, reviews are lovely and much appreciated!

A little personal advertising: In the next few days, I intend to begin publishing pieces on FanFiction's sister site, FictionPress, under the same pen name. Though it is a far cry from the subject of my current writings, I urge you all to give it a peek...

Read, smile, smile again for good measure, and review!

**12. Chasing Smoke**

"**The healthy man does not torture others – generally it is the tortured who turn into torturers." – Carl Gustav Jung**

A shadow hung over the office, entirely separate from the dark that had slunk in with the setting of the sun a few hours ago. Computer screens and faintly burning clocks reading 11:13 PM did nothing to combat the malicious umber, for it existed as much in the hearts of the office's few remaining occupants as it did in the office itself. I was composed of equal parts determination to finish their task, doubt that they could, and fear of the consequences that would accompany failure.

Light from the war room played over empty, darkened cubicles, row after row sitting lifeless and abandoned… all except one. The sign on the desk dutifully identified its single occupant to be Special Agent Don Eppes, and yet, lamentably, the man huddled in the office chair, eyes glued to the computer screen, was not Don Eppes.

"…Eppsie and I have other things to discuss."

The screen went blank, and so did Charlie's brain. It was a strangely exciting new feeling, not thinking about anything at all, and he would have enjoyed it, had the reason for his brain short-circuiting not been so grave. He opened his mouth to speak, but with too many things to say and no one to say them too, he simply let his jaw hang open without purpose.

"Charlie?"

Starting, he looked up to see Colby approaching; his vocal cords still in a knot, he simply nodded in greeting. Taking stock of the blank screen, Colby sighed and scratched his head.

"You watched it?"

Another nod answered, and Colby looked down.

"Look, Charlie, we–"

"How could someone do that to another human being?" he interrupted.

Colby shot him a confused look. "The guy's a psychopath, Charlie. He doesn't follow the same rules – moral or otherwise – as the rest of us."

"Don's not a psychopath," he said quietly, revealing the true recipient of his former comment.

Realization dawned in Colby's eyes; he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and watching Charlie closely. "No, he isn't, which means even if he did kill that woman, he must have had a very good reason for it."

This seemed to console Charlie not at all; Colby decided to pull out the heavy artillery.

"Look, Charlie, when I was on that boat, getting stuck up with needles, I had a job to do. That job was to not give away anything I knew. To accomplish that, I had to stay quiet until you guys came to get me… or until I died. Right now, Don's job is to stay alive, and to do that, he has to do what this guy wants him to do, and say what this guy wants him to say."

Charlie looked up. "What are you saying? That Don didn't kill that woman?"

"I'm just saying that, considering his situation, you shouldn't put too much weight on what he said."

Only a moment of silence passed between them when the elevator rang and out strode David, file in hand.

"You guys are gonna wanna see this," he assured them.

"Why? You got something?" Colby asked as he and Charlie followed David into the war room, where Megan and Liz were already assembled.

"I think I may just have our guy." He triumphantly threw a file onto the desk, which Megan pounced on. "I ran the picture we got off the tape through our database. It turned out this kid. Name's Sean—"

"—Lawson," finished Megan with a pang of realization. "Katherine Lawson's son." Skimming the file, all she could do was nod as it all fell into place. "He's a second year medical student at Stanford. Judging by what he did to Anderson, I'm gonna say he's a pretty good student."

"Third in his class," supplied David with a nod.

"Ooooh, that's gotta bug him," she exclaimed. "A young perfectionist with medical knowledge and schizophrenia. We've got our guy, all right."

"Wait," interrupted Colby, confused. "Schizophrenia?"

"Remember his outburst? He said when he gets frustrated, 'Mr. Weasel' comes to visit. It's not all that surprising, really; a kid loses their parents that young, and you have to wonder. My guess is it developed after he lost his mother; he felt helpless and frustrated, so he imagined up someone who could – or would – do all the things he wanted to do."

"Like avenge his mother's death?" suggested Colby.

"Exactly."

"I checked with his teachers, and his grandparents, who he used to live with," David said. "From what I can tell, he started out the year acting strange, and nobody's seen him in a couple of weeks."

"My only question is, why now?" Colby somehow still looked slightly skeptical. "The kid's had fifteen years to do this. Why the sudden rush?"

"It _is_ that time of year; could be the anniversary of his mom's death set him off," David posed.

"Normally, I'd say yes," agreed Megan. "But six identical murders? He's been planning this for a while. Some other emotional trigger, then?"

"How about your girlfriend being diagnosed with cancer?" Colby pointed out the line in Sean's file, which he had commandeered.

"I'd feel pretty helpless," Megan said.

"Hey, check this out," Liz interrupted suddenly, pointing at the screen of the laptop on which she slaved. "Seven weeks ago, Sean Lawson bought a loft in South Central."

"A second year medical student? Where'd he get that kind of cash?" asked Megan.

"It gets better. The space downstairs used to be a butcher's shop, and get this – there's a basement."

"A big basement with concrete floors, maybe?" suggested Colby, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know," cautioned David, peering at the time. "If we roll on this place and we're wrong, we won't have enough time to come back and try again."

"If we hit it and we're wrong, we have nothing to try again with anyway," Liz pointed out. "If we don't hit it, then what? We sit here and come up with something better?"

All eyes were on Megan – it was her call. For a single moment, she hesitated, contemplating the options. At last, she turned to face them, delivering the final verdict.

"We roll in five."


	13. Hands Held High

Sorry it's late, guys. Writer's block is a pain, and it rarely comes at a good time.

Read, smile, or cry (this one's kind of sad) and review!

**13. Hands Held High**

"**On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." – from **_**Fight Club**_

_Thumpathumpathumpathumpathumpa…_

His heart raced along with his mind as he watched Sean approach him once more. The man prowled like a big, angry cat, but as soon as you heard his voice, you thought, _snake_. Or at least that's what most people thought; when Sean spoke next, Don thought something more profane as he struggled to maintain his nerves.

"You serious, Eppsie?"

He swallowed. "Yeah, Sean, I am. Go ahead. What's stopping you?"

"Nothing. It's just that birdie's singin' two different tunes in as many minutes. Makes us Dick Cheneys with the bird shot a bit… nervous."

Don paused. The line he was walking was an especially fine one; he has to taunt Sean enough to convince him of his sincerity, and yet, too much goading, and he may actually follow through. To tease or not to tease had become synonymous with to be or not to be.

"So what changed, Eppsie? Sean moved closer, a light in his eye that Don didn't like. "You call your little friends? We talked about that, Eppsie. No sneaky trying to escape, remember?"

"No. How could I—"

Perhaps his answer was too quick, or maybe his tone was too innocent; in any event, he received a sharp backhand in return.

"What did you tell them, Eppsie? Who I am? Where we are? Answers, Eppsie, I need ANSWERS!"

Don decided silence was the best course of action, and Sean raised his hand to hit him again, but it was halted in its path by a battle cry that was like the voice of an angel in Don's ears.

"FBI!"

With a bang, a door flew open, and light flooded the basement, as well as an impressive array of red laser gun sights. Spinning, Sean noted the deteriorating situation he was in and let out a snarl; a hand dove into his pocket as boots pounded on the stairs. Regaining his composure and smiling one last time, Sean turned, grabbed Don by the shoulder, and, without hesitation, drove the needle straight into his heart.

"Give my regards to Katherine." These were the last words to tax Sean Lawson's lungs before an army of bullets blew them to pieces.

Breath deserted him in an instant; Don balked, eyes wide, as his nerves colorfully reported to him that there was something in his body that shouldn't be there. It was as if someone had looped a belt around his chest and had suddenly tightened it as far as it would go. Gasping to sustain himself, he sat and watched the world spin as blades slipped in between his wrists and the cord that bound them. Soft hands peeled his arms from those of the chair, and, when the cord at his ankles snapped and gave him up, the same hands urged him forward. Unfortunately, not particularly in control of his body, he did little more than slither off the chair to the floor. There was SWAT all around him, running and stamping and pointing their guns, but it wasn't they who turned him over.

"Colby, I can't lift him, give me a hand…" It was Megan's voice, and stressed yet businesslike, and yet the figure that held him wore a red dress and an amorous smile. Too, t he figure that approached to oblige her request was a great, hulking form, but not that of Colby Granger. Instead, bear-like arms heaved him up by the shoulders, and he was brought face-to-face with another childishly grinning countenance.

"Coop?" he managed to fit in between shallow breaths.

Katherine and Coop exchanged a worried look, and when Don blinked, the world flickered, and they were instantly replaced with Megan and Colby, who just carried him away that much faster. Don's last sight as they climbed the stairs was a brief glimpse of the broken body of Sean Lawson, a clown's smile stretched across his face. Then he was outside, set down on cold pavement, staring up at a sea of winking stars. He wondered what they reminded him of… another night sky, so long ago?

He was vaguely aware of someone saying his name, but whenever he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was the wheezing of his breath. A hand on his neck – someone was taking his pulse; trying to calm hypersensitive nerves, he listened to his heartbeat, and indeed, it did seem to be slowing, maybe too much.

_Thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa…_

"Pulse is weak," reported Megan. Her mouth kept moving, as did Colby's, but he couldn't hear what came out, and he watched them for only a moment before his gaze drifted up once more to that star-adorned sky. He blinked, _and the stars rearranged themselves,_ _the windshield of a car framing the celestial array as it had back then. Crickets and peepers chirped noisily from their refuge in the garbage cans, and the blind white eye of the moon stared down at him accusingly. The night had started out hot, the trick-or-treaters shedding their jackets as they walked from house to house, extorting candy with sweet smiles, eggs, and toilet paper._

_"Don. Hey, Donnie, wake up."_

_It was Coop's gruff voice, and he could almost smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. "Come on, sleepyhead, we've got our mark…"_

"DON! Goddammit—"

The voice was so out of place, he jerked awake, the world falling into place around him. A blurry, shadowed face came slowly into focus, bleeding concern: Colby. The interior of an ambulance swam into view behind him, all compartments, metal, and buttons. His shirt was gone, the air unusually cold on the bare skin.

"Just keep breathing, man," urged Colby. "Stay with me…"

He tried, he really did, but with all the flashing lights and sounds, it was hard not to slip back into the memory, just close his eyes and imagine _he was in the junky 4X4 with Coop, napping on a bed of fast food wrappers and cigarette butts, the binoculars pressed tight to his chest…_

_"Eppes! Wake up, ya greenie. We gotta go!"_

"Come on, Don, hang on…"

"All right, all right, Coop, I'm coming…" he whispered, weak and slurred. Colby looked confused, and his ears picked out another sound from the hustle and bustle: someone crying. Turning, he squinted to make out the source, sighing when he did. Reaching out, Don took Charlie's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"It's okay," he insisted quietly. "I won't be gone long."

Then something in his chest seized up; choking, he listened to the shouts and activity this inspired. A blink, and _he escaped to the front seat of that truck, fifteen years ago, watching a beautiful woman in a red dress walking up the steps to her little piece of suburban sprawl. He didn't know her name yet, but after tonight, he would never forget it._

"Don? Don! DON!"

_Thump a thump a thump a thump a beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…_


	14. Dear Katherine

It took me a while to write this one. After all, this is kind of the chapter we've all been waiting for, the one where we find out what exactly happened to Katherine Lawson on that fateful Hallow's Eve, 1993.

I hope I've done the incident justice in this penning of it.

Read, smile, and review!

**14. Dear Katherine**

**'"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! – tear up the planks! here, here! – It is the beating of his hideous heart!"' – from _The Tell-Tale Heart, _by Edgar Allen Poe**

_Eagerly, Don put the binoculars to his eyes and goggled at the woman climbing the steps. The way her smooth, toned calves flexed to achieve this made Don suddenly not mind the hours he had spent tapped in this junker, waiting for her boyfriend, Tony DeLuca, to show up. In fact, perhaps the only reason he was here was because nobody expected DeLuca to be stupid enough to show up here. As a newbie, he and Coop had been assigned to the least-risk location, or "the graveyard shift in the rubber room," as Coop had described it with his usual charm._

_But this was better than DeLuca, or at least to Don it was. The gangster treated her well, it seemed; the red dress she wore was obviously expensive and well-tailored, following each curve of her body, leaving little to the imagination as she bent to pick up a shattered eggshell off the front steps…_

_"EPPES!" _

_A hand slapped down the binoculars, and Don stared innocently into the ire-filled eyes of his mentor._

_"Come on, Eppes, focus," growled Coop. "We've got work to do."_

_Shaking his head in disappointment, Don stashed the binoculars in the glove box and reached for his seatbelt._

_"Where you goin, Eppes?"_

_"Lemme guess," Don shot back with a degree of sarcasm. "We're being transferred because this area is getting too hot for us to handle." He peered wistfully through the window and watched the woman straighten up._

"Way too hot," _he breathed to himself._

"Did he just…?"

"I don't know..."

"_You kidding?" The tone made Don look back sharply. "I just got a call from Anderson. He says we move in."_

_Popping the door open, he slid out and slammed the door; Don was more than willing to follow. Together, the two men crossed the street. Coop, a little bit ahead of Don, gave his partner the signal to let him do the talking as he approached the woman._

"_Excuse me, are you Miss Katherine Lawson?"_

_Holding the door ajar, she turned to greet them with a half-guarded smile, and Don suppressed the urge to whistle impishly. She was gorgeous, bright green eyes intensified by pale skin and flowing locks of chestnut. Her perfectly white teeth were framed by lips painted scarlet to match her dress. Looking the two hooligans up and down, she put a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side._

"_You two look a bit old to be trick-or-treating."_

_Coop chuckled a bit to humor her, then flashed his badge. "Actually, Ms. Lawson, we're here on business. I'm Agent Cooper, and this is _Junior_ Agent Eppes. I was hoping we might be able to ask you a few questions."_

_The friendly smile disappeared, and Don groaned inwardly. AS if Coop hadn't ruined their chances enough by indentifying them, he just had to stick that 'junior' in there… Now Katherine was looking daggers at them. Not overly friendly, not scared, submissive, but genuinely angry, defiant. Interesting._

_With a sigh of disgust, she stepped inside, leaving the door open for them to follow. The last one in, Don shut the door quietly behind him and examined the place. Apparently, the dress was just the beginning of DeLuca's special brand of pampering; the front hall was decorated, stucco-style, with various paintings and photographs on the walls. Following the sound of Katherine's ranting, he emerged into a dining room equipped with a luxurious cherry table, with matching hand-carved chairs and gold-detailed cherry dish cabinets. At the far end of the room, and grandfather clock ticked away their lives, seconds at a time…_

"_Why do you people keep pestering me? Day and night, you never stop. You even send people to watch Sean at school. He's seven, for Christ's sake! What exactly do you expect him to know? It's bad enough you made his father run—"_

"_Ms. Lawson, we didn't make your fiancé do anything," interrupted Coop. "He ran because he shot three people in South Central over a kilo of heroin. Now I know that Tony came here to dump the shipment after the shooting. I also know you think he's got friends in high places, but, to tell you the truth, he offed most of them that night, and the ones who are left are just as interested in finding him as we are. If you want Tony alive, you've got to tell me where he is, so we can find him before the hitmen do."_

_For a long moment, she sat and thought, wringing her hands and fidgeting in the uncomfortable wooden chair she'd sat herself down in. When she met Coop's eyes, her face was impassive, and she simply said, "Mrs. DeLuca."_

"_What?"_

_She took a deep breath. "I prefer to be called Mrs. DeLuca."_

_Taking two strides, Cooppromptly slapped her across the face. The noise prompting him to act, Don lunged forward to grab Coop's raised hand before he could deliver a second slap, but Coop landed him a good blow to the side of the head that left him on the carpet with his brain singing. Then Coop reached for his cuffs._

"_Put your hands behind you," he ordered. When she didn't obey, he grabbed her wrists, threading them through the cutouts in the chair back and cuffing them together so she could not rise._

"_Bastard!" she spat, regaining her fervor. "You're arresting me? For what?"_

"_Obstruction of justice," Coop said simply. Drawing up a chair, he sat in it the wrong way around and fixed her with a steely glare. "Not that that'll be a problem much longer." Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, he retrieved a small box the size of a pen case. Setting it on the lavish dining room table, he flipped it open to reveal three tiny syringes. He pulled one out and dangled it before her eyes. "One shot of this, and you'll spill all your dirty little secrets."_

_Regaining focus on the floor, Don watched the scene with horror; every Quantico rule, every _moral _rule, was being broken before his eyes._

"What the hell, Coop," _he managed._

"What's he saying?"

"I can't tell."

_Coop took no notice of him, just stuck her with the needle, put it back in the case and leaned forward._

"_You can't do this," spluttered Katherine._

"_I can, and I will. Where is Tony DeLuca?"_

_She shook her head and started to cry. "I don't… I don't know… he didn't tell me…"_

"_That's a lie, he was here today." He pried out the next syringe. "I think you need a little more."_

_Don had gotten to his feet, but he was frozen with shock at what he was seeing and fear at what Coop would do to him if he interfered. The latter was spelled out of him in perfect clarity when, a moment later, he took a step forward and found himself staring down the business end of a Glock._

"_This is how it is, Eppes, this is how we do things around here. Now go upstairs. Clear it to make sure he's not up there. Then check under the bed; get the H and bring it to me."_

_And like a good little boy, he did, backing out of the room and heading up the stairs. A quick sweep told him it was DeLuca-free._

"Clear!" _he yelled down to Coop; strangely enough, the word was not in his voice, and a distant jolt went through him, making him feel like he was missing something…_

"His rhythm's evening out… 40 to 50 BPM…"

"That's still low; we should try again."

_Heading downstairs, he placed the plastic bag into Coop's hands, trying not to notice the blood in Katherine's hair, her swelling black eyes…_

"_Good. Now go wait in the car."_

_And, like a good little boy, he did, letting himself out of the house and shutting the door behind him. On the steps, however, he hesitated, pacing. Had Anderson seriously authorized this? If he hadn't, his FBI career could be over before it started. But if he had, then Don could have much bigger problems…_

_Just then, there came a scream from inside. To hell with authorization, he thought as he kicked in the door and drew his gun. He had half a moment's glimpse of Coop speeding past him out the door before he saw her. Sprawled across the table, no longer cuffed, and empty needle in her hand, she was the perfect picture of a druggie who'd gone too far. Her wide, fearful eyes held him, horrorstruck, unable to move, until a small voice behind him said, "mommy?"_

_Standing in the doorway was a seven-year-old boy, dressed all in black with a goalie's mask and an axe in a pale imitation of a serial killer. In one hand he carried a pillowcase full of sugary plunder; in the other, he gripped a flashlight, which he was shining on his mother's face, confusion in his eyes. Sean Lawson._

"I didn't mean to," _said Don, holding up his hands as panic set in._ "I didn't have anything to do with it, I swear…"

"It's all right, Don, just calm down…"

"I don't think he can hear you."

_The little boy cocked his head. "Is my mommy sleeping?"_

_For a minute, Don thought. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, she's just sleeping. And I bet she'll be really happy if you're here when she wakes up."_

"_Whatever," Sean dismissed him. "I'm gonna go eat my candy."_

_Once he was out of the room, Don ran. He ran out the door and down the steps, down the street, away from that place, away from that night…_

…and with another jolt, he was gasping, and shivering, and there was much pain and cold and sweat and blood…

…but he was alive.


	15. Epilogue: Risen

I wasn't sure whether to let this one lie with "Dear Katherine" or stay for the afterparty. Here's what I had planned for the epilogue. After this, I plan on taking a break until September when the next season starts.

Until then, however, read, smile, and review... one last time.

**15. Epilogue - Risen**

"**Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." -- Seneca **

Knock, knock, knock…

"Hello? Hello?"

Don tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the red beauty that haunted his sleep, but found himself hard-pressed to. Sighing with annoyance, he rose from the couch gingerly, stretching with some discomfort and making his way to the door. The living room was festooned with lame, ancient decorations, paper pumpkins and plastic skeletons leering down at him from the walls and ceiling, making him wince with the memory that he himself, in a restless frenzy, had put them up.

The door opened to reveal a badly-dressed ghoul and a kid in black dressed up like a skeleton and begging to be hit by a car. He flinched at the return of his headache as they launched into sugar-crazed song.

"Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to eat!"

He blinked at them blearily. "What?"

"Don't you have any candy?" asked one with suspicion.

It was then that they noticed it; he could tell by the way their eyes met his, or, at least, _one_ of his. In fact, their eyes couldn't meet at all, or at least not the one they seemed so fascinated with. This was due to the fact that it was concealed between a black strip of cloth. Discreetly grinding his teeth, he waited for them to say it, and one of them obliged him.

"What are you supposed to be? A pirate?"

For a minute, he wanted to lift up the eye patch and give them a good glare with his injured eye, but at that moment, Charlie arrived with a bag of candy with which to satisfy the young extortionists, and with a few choice words, none of which were 'thank you', they left.

"Why Halloween?" groaned Don, slamming the door. "Why does it have to be Halloween?"

"Oh, come on," Alan said, peering through the drapes lovingly at the little hooligans as they went. "Look at them. They're free, they're happy…"

"…and they're TPing our house," finished Charlie, briefly joining Alan at the window before his father tore out of the house to fend off the amateur mischief-makers.

Rolling his eyes, Don shut the door more gently this time and started to make his way back to the couch, where waited a bowl of once-hot soup, some saltines, and an inviting sorts event blaring in heavenly HD from the TV. Charlie moved to help him, but Don waved him off. The last week had robbed him of three things; his job, his sanity, and his private life. All temporary losses, true, but in the meantime, he would rather leave his pride intact…

"You okay?" asked Charlie with concern. As much as Don had hated his forced medical leave, he couldn't help but appreciate all the things Charlie had done for him. After two days of acting as a fetching boy for Don in the hospital, Charlie had offered him a couch and free food in the altogether more accessible Craftsman home. He'd even had the common courtesy to hide all his case files so Don couldn't fixate on them, the ultimate 'positions reversed'. Collapsing onto the couch, Don considered how seriously to answer the question.

"I'm fine, Charlie," he managed to pull off with grace. "Just a little tired of hearing the same jokes, that's all."

"Right." Charlie turned toward the kitchen.

"Grab me a beer, would you?" Don asked casually.

"Not with the pain medication, the doctor said," Charlie shot back. It was a constant struggle between them, but this time Don had a new twist up his sleeve.

"I'm not taking my medication anymore, so get me a beer."

Charlie turned and eyed him in a way that was almost motherly. "What?"

Don tried to shrug it off. The news wasn't eliciting the reception he'd expected. "I'm not taking my pain meds anymore."

Another tense moment passed as Charlie stared at him hard, his hand on the door to the kitchen. Then, very quietly, he said, "you don't have to do this, Don."

"Do what, Charlie? What am I doing?"

"You don't have to beat yourself up about Katherine Lawson."

"Oh, here we go again…"

"I'm serious, Don. It was fifteen years ago, and this whole little scheme of Sean's at least gave her family some closure. Now it's time to move on."

"Come on, Charlie, you of all people should know; this is in my head. I can't just stop thinking about it." Charlie still looked unsympathetic, so he decided to fight dirty. "This is more than a math problem, Charlie. Have you ever watched someone die and known it was your fault?"

Charlie fixed him with a look. "Yes, I have, Don. You were legally dead for thirty-two seconds in that ambulance."

That shut him up sharpish. Charlie's voice softened.

"Whatever you did or didn't do, it's done now, and you have to realize that. Larry could have a nice long talk with you about the impossibility and danger of changing the past." A couple of icy seconds passed, and then Charlie, almost innocuously, added a little salute and a quick, "matey."

Then he turned tail and fled into the bowels of the house as all 100 sum-odd pounds of well-rested, SWAT-trained flesh and muscle heaved itself off the couch to pursue him. It was this sight to which Alan Eppes returned to the house, and the bad mood the hooligans had left him with was almost immediately replaced with a smile as he watched his sons bounding up and down the stairs, around the house in great loops, even venturing out into the backyard. He only called off the festivities when the furniture's well-being was threatened, pulling three beers from the fridge with which to bait his trap. Eventually, they found themselves all on the couch, animatedly watching the last few minutes of the sports program. Clicking off the TV with a sigh, Don absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair.

"It's nice to have you home, Donnie."

"Nice to be home, Dad."

Just then, one the dining room table, a phone began to buzz. It was Don's, and when he pounced on it, the caller ID told him it was Megan.

"Gotta take this one, guys," he said, hoping he didn't sound to triumphant. Flipping it open, he pushed his way into the kitchen as he answered.

"Eppes."

Patiently, he listened to the call, waving off her apologies about the lateness of the hour, her intrusion into his personal recuperation time, and her deepest regrets about it being a holiday. Finally came the part he'd been waiting for, the part when she admitted she'd come across something they really needed him for, had no idea how to go about it, and could he please come in. He gave the usual reply.

"Yeah, I'll be there in like—" he fumbled around with his watch as a formality, "—twenty minutes, okay?" Click.

Grabbing his keys, he pushed back into the living room, where Alan and Charlie waited for the verdict.

"Sorry, guys, I gotta work," he admitted. "Some corpse Halloween decoration turned out to not be a decoration."

He swept out the front door with the usual hurried goodbyes. Sliding into the front seat of his SUV, he was just about ready to fire up the engine when a movement out by the koi pond made him stop. All he really caught was a flash of red fabric and a blown kiss, but he pulled out of the drive with a secret smile, sensing the end of one thing, and an inward frown, sensing the beginning of another…

**FINIS**


End file.
